Free Dragon's Boy by Jane Yolen Page B

her voice was low and lyrical and pure and that was how he knew he’d found Truth at last.”
    Artos nodded, caught himself, tried to recapture his hot anger, and stirred uneasily.
    The old man went on. “He stayed with Truth a year and a day. A year and a day learning all she had to teach. And when his time was done, he said, ‘My Lady, Truth, I must go back to my own kingdom now and serve my own people as I have served you. For a king is but his land’s servant. Still, I would do something for you in exchange for all you have given me.’” Old Linn hesitated and the silence grew between them until it was almost a wall.
    â€œWell?” Artos said at last.
    The old man was silent.
    â€œWell—what did she answer? You can’t stop a story there.”
    Old Linn was careful not to smile. Gently he said, “She told him: When you speak of me, tell your people that I am young and beautiful.’”
    For a long moment Artos said nothing. Then he barked out a short, hollow laugh. “Another cheat. So much for the truth!”
    Old Linn patted the mattress next to him, an invitation Artos ignored. “Tell me, Artos Pendragon, would you have listened these seven months to an old apothecary with a tendency to fits? A man you were convinced hated you? A man without discernible power or potency?”
    Artos shrugged.
    â€œOr would you listen only to a dragon, fiery, fierce, fair-minded, strong, full of arcane and extraordinary wisdoms who—quite possibly—liked you for yourself alone? Quite possibly loved you as a son? Pendragon .”
    â€œYou didn’t tell me the truth,” Artos said. “And that’s the whole of it.”
    There was a moment of silence. Then the old man said, “I didn’t lie. You are the dragon’s son.”

12
The Dragon’s Boy
    A RTOS TOOK A GOOD look at the sick old man and cried out in pain, in anger, in disbelief, and in despair. “Noooooooooo.”
    The words were still echoing off the cavern walls when he ran out and down the darkened path, heedless of the rocks in his way. He stumbled off into the marshy cushions of moorland, startling a swan that rose white and mute from a pool of standing water.
    He found himself suddenly knee deep in that same pool, surrounded by duckweed and water mint, his mind as muddy as the pond.
    How could Old Linn be my father? My father should be a strong, fair-minded knight, not a…a… He remembered the words the old man had used: An old apothecary with a tendency to fits. Without thinking, he put his hand on the bag, feeling the ring roll around beneath his fingers. And won’t they all laugh at me — Cai, Lancot, Bed. Fathered by an old man. A secretive old man. A crazy old man. A lying old man.
    His feet had begun to go numb in the cold water, and he edged toward the clumps of water violets rimming the pool. Tangling his hands in the vegetation, he hauled himself up and out, onto some sort of strange wooden pathway.
    He knew what it was, one of the Old Paths. He’d heard of the lake folk who’d walked the ancient planks but had never actually seen any remains before.
    Taking his boots off and dumping out the water in them, he sat for a long time thinking about the ancient folk, the ones who’d built the walkways all across the fens. They’d known so much—and now their knowledge was gone. Only bits and pieces—like the walkways—remained.
    And their stories, he suddenly reminded himself because he was, at the core, an honest boy. Stories the dragon had told him. The dragon. Old Linn. He made a face.
    At last he pulled the wet boots back on, stood, and looked around. It was fully night. The moon was directly overhead. How long had he been sitting out on the moors? One shouldn’t stay here all night. There were the peat hags to worry about, of course. And the faeries, though they dwelled mostly on the High Tor. And the cold. But there